Friday evening, I had a pleasant dinner with my friend, Pete, and his sister and parents. As I was driving the family back to Pete’s sister’s apartment, Pete announced that he’d heard on the radio that Vincent Pastore of “The Sopranos” was to be the king of the St. Joseph’s Day parade the following day. He had told me this earlier in the day, and I knew we were on tricky territory. Sure enough, Momma Pete asks, “You mean Pussy?” And Poppa Pete says, “Big Pussy.” Okay, folks. That’s two pussies so far. My knuckles were getting white around the steering wheel. Pete confirms, “Yes, Big Pussy; although the radio announcer was too much of a pussy to say it on the radio.” Four, if you are keeping count; I was.

To be clear, Pete’s parents are not some cool hipsters but are fine, upstanding people, people that are apparently also fans of “The Sopranos.” This is as uncomfortable a conversation as if it were with my own parents.

After a moment of calm, Momma Pete says to sis, “If Dad’s not back by five, we can go to mass then see Pussy.” That did it. I had to REALLY FOCUS on not crashing my car. I muttered under my breath, “That’s two words I never thought I’d hear together in the same sentence.” “Pardon?” asked Momma Pete. I couldn’t repeat myself. But Pete did. I don’t think any one but Pete knew what I meant. Thank God.

Pete informed me later that his parents and sister did go to mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral followed by the parade and that Momma Pete was elated to have caught a pair of beads “directly from Big Pussy.” Welcome to New Orleans.